


Earth Laughs In Flowers

by Llama1412



Series: Petals and Stripes [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, Forbidden Love, Hanahaki Disease, Idiots in Love, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:49:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27621608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama1412/pseuds/Llama1412
Summary: When Roche isn't present during a scuffle between the Scoia'tael and the Blue Stripes, Iorveth discovers that the reason is much more serious than anything he could've guessed.
Relationships: Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Series: Petals and Stripes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2019938
Comments: 34
Kudos: 84





	Earth Laughs In Flowers

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a quote by Ralph Waldo Emerson
> 
> [Srokazlodziejka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SrokaZlodziejka/pseuds/SrokaZlodziejka) drew this [amazing art of Roche!](https://kazytka.tumblr.com/post/635343065303891968/a-present-for-llama1412-an-illustration-to) Check it out!

In the four years since Vernon Roche had assumed command of the Blue Stripes, he had _never_ missed a mission. Ever. Iorveth recalled once fighting him when the dh’oine’s face was flushed with fever, and the man had _still_ joined the Blue Stripes raid and still faced Iorveth.

That hadn’t been the first time Iorveth had held himself back from the killing blow, though it was one of the more memorable occasions. But the point was, Roche took his work seriously. _Very_ seriously.

So when the Blue Stripes ambushed the Scoia’tael during their raid of a supply caravan, Iorveth was perhaps a bit concerned when he realized that one Vernon Roche was missing in action. Instead, the Stripes were led by their second in command, a woman named Ves who did not believe in tying her armor closed and yet, despite that, no elf had ever managed to lay a hit on her exposed abdomen. She was also scarily accurate with her knives, and since Roche wasn’t there, apparently she decided it was her duty to target him.

Frankly, he much preferred Roche as his opponent. For one thing, her exposed skin did absolutely nothing for him. Secondly, he and Roche had more or less come to an understanding where neither of them killed the other, though they both tried their hardest anyway. Thirdly, when _Roche_ came after him with a vicious smirk and a shining dagger, the glint in _his_ eyes was more akin to adrenaline and excitement rather than the sheer unrelenting malice in Ves’s eyes.

She was quite honestly terrifying.

Iorveth spent the majority of the raid leaping from tree to tree, wildly dodging the very precise knives that flew towards him relentlessly. Surely she had to run out of knives soon, right?

Ciaran, his own second in command, took one look at him and correctly read that Iorveth had no brain capacity to keep an eye on how the raid was progressing. Fortunately, Ciaran did, and when he signaled their retreat, Iorveth knew that his people must have gathered all the supplies they could manage.

Iorveth climbed higher into the trees, higher than Ves, still on the ground, could see, then began to make his own retreat, in a round about manner, just in case she managed to follow him.

If he lingered a little longer than he should when he heard the Blue Stripes talking amongst themselves, then no one needed to know.

“Think the Boss’ll be proud?” the youngest Blue Stripes commando asked. Iorveth was 90% sure his name was Silas, but the others mostly called him newbie when Iorveth observed them. “We didn’t manage to capture any prisoners.”

“Bossman’s in no condition to question a prisoner anyway,” the markman said. Finch, he thought their name was, trying to pretend that the sour feeling in his stomach at Finch’s words was not worry, not at all. What did Finch mean Roche was in no condition? What was wrong with him?

“Do you think he’ll pull through?” Fenn, the unit’s bookie and explosives expert, bit his lip as he spoke and Iorveth suddenly felt like someone had reached into his chest and closed a cold fist around his heart. There was a chance Roche was in a condition where he might _not_ pull through?

“I don’t know,” their medic grunted. The man that the other Stripes affectionately called Pillow Tits or PT – Iorveth’s spies had never been able to discover his proper name – wrapped a bandage around the scout, Thirteen’s, forearm, then stood up. “I’d like to get back to him. There’s nothing I can do except make him comfortable, but…”

Iorveth’s breath froze in his chest. Nothing the medic could do? That couldn’t mean what it sounded like.

“Yeah,” the last Stripes commando said. All Iorveth actually knew about this one was that the others called him Shorty and that he had so many kids that that was all Iorveth’s spies could focus on. “I wish he would let us stay with him.”

“You know why he won’t,” Ves said sharply. “If the King found out…”

The Stripes all looked at each other, the air tense and distressed. “He won’t find out from us,” PT stated firmly. 

“Of course not,” Thirteen nodded. “In the meantime, what _does_ the king think is wrong with him?”

“Just a flu,” PT said. “Serious, but curable.”

“Is it?” Silas asked, and Iorveth could see the shine in his eyes from all the way up in the trees. Iorveth swallowed, trying to convince himself he wasn’t as desperate for the answer as Silas was.

“Theoretically. But…”

“If the Boss gets himself killed like this, I vote we bring him back and kick his ass,” Shorty swore.

“He won’t die,” Ves’s voice was fierce and she cut them all off with a look. “We have to believe he’ll be okay. Now, we have work to do. Get to it!”

At her order, all six men immediately jumped into motion, cleaning the battlefield with the kind of efficiency that came from complete familiarity with the task. Iorveth watched them blankly, mind whirling with everything he’d overheard. Roche. Roche was sick. Seriously sick. Possibly may not pull through sick.

Why did that cause a heavy brick to sink in Iorveth’s gut? What did he care if his enemy found his end somewhere other than at Iorveth’s hand?

As it turned out, he cared a _lot._ Enough that instead of heading back towards base, he began silently moving through the trees in the direction of the dh’oine town. The same town that had a price on Iorveth’s head that was _quite_ sizable.

Ciaran would kill him for this, for taking this kind of risk for no reason. But it wasn’t no reason, it was _Roche._ His enemy. His nemesis. His counterpart.

Dammit, only _he_ was allowed to kill Roche. This sickness couldn’t have him!

On light feet, Iorveth hopped from tree to rooftop and, hiding in the shadows, began to make his way across town to where he knew Roche had a house. He’d never seen it personally, but his spies were good and he knew exactly where it was and how to get there.

From Roche’s roof, it was a simple matter to swing down and slip into a window on the second floor. In retrospect, he perhaps should’ve checked the room before flipping inside, because now, Iorveth found himself standing ankle deep in pink petals that looked like they belonged to red campions. He bent to pick one up, rubbing the petal between his fingers, and something wet spotted the flower, red blood dark against the pink bloom. 

Iorveth swallowed, curling his fingers into a fist and accidentally crushing the bloody flower. It’s sweet scent permeated the air and he looked around the room, searching for Roche. Why would Roche have a room full of flowers stained with his blood?

Well, Iorveth could think of one reason, but he was certain he’d heard that dh’oine were different in that respect. Besides, if it were _that,_ all Roche had to do was confess to his lover and he would be cured. From the way his team had talked about it, it couldn’t be that.

Iorveth stepped carefully across the floor he couldn’t see through the flowers, pretending that the idea of Roche loving someone ~~else~~ didn’t bother him at all. After all, why should it?

The room had a divider that blocked half the space from Iorveth’s view, so he edged around it slowly – and discovered a bed, currently occupied by a certain dh’oine commander still wearing his ridiculous fucking hat. Even from here, Iorveth could see that it was soaked in sweat and though Roche’s eyes were open, they were hazy and did not seem to recognize him at all.

Iorveth swallowed, not at all feeling something twinge in his chest at Roche’s lack of acknowledgement. He crept closer to the bed, not sure if he was hoping that Roche _would_ recognize him or that Roche _wouldn’t._ The latter would be much easier to explain away – his visit was nothing more than a fever dream. Certainly not a concerned visit for an enemy.

When he was at Roche’s bedside, Iorveth cleared his throat and spoke softly, “Vernon.”

Roche’s chin snapped to the side to face him, but those eyes were still hazy and unseeing. Iorveth grit his teeth and tried again.

“Vernon. What’s wrong with you?”

Roche’s eyes fluttered, closing for a long minute before he forced them back open to look at Iorveth. “Y’r not really here,” Roche mumbled, his voice hoarse and strained in a way that sounded painful.

“Of course I’m not,” Iorveth nodded. “But tell me anyway.”

Roche snorted softly, mostly a huff of air, eyes fluttering closed again. “PT says it’s ‘cause I can’t admit it.”

“Admit what?”

Roche just shook his head, lips tugging upwards at the corner. “Of course I’d hallucinate you,” he huffed. “Who else?”

Iorveth’s own lips twitched. “Your team talked about you like you were dying. And you do look, um…”

“Like death warmed over?” Roche’s chuckle turned into a cough halfway through and the dh’oine covered his mouth, turning his back on Iorveth to curl up in a ball as if that would help the scratchy coughing, its sound a little too wet for Iorveth’s comfort. 

Without really thinking about it, Iorveth reached out and rubbed Roche’s back soothingly. He wasn’t expecting the way Roche melted into his touch, even as he kept coughing and coughing, his entire body shaking with it. 

“Vernon,” Iorveth said again, thinking back on the blood-spotted flowers. “What’s wrong with you? If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were suffering from hanahaki.”

Roche just coughed in response, but when the dh’oine drew his hand away from his mouth, it was covered in blood and pretty red campion blossoms. 

“Oh,” Iorveth blinked stupidly. “You _are.”_

“The wasting disease, we call it,” Roche rasped, voice gravely, and Iorveth almost wanted to cough in sympathy. “Not supposed to be like this, though.”

Iorveth frowned. Hanahaki was a common enough condition that every elf was told of it growing up. If an elf fell in love with someone and their emotions were unrequited, then they might fall ill and possibly even die. Hanahaki was distinctive in its symptoms – fever and body aches were a side effect of the body slowly shutting down, but the main symptom was their lungs filling with flowers, flowers that represented the person they loved. The one that didn’t love them.

But Iorveth had always thought that it was an elf-only condition. How could Roche have it?

Iorveth tilted his head. Actually… why had the Blue Stripes implied that the king finding out would be disastrous? Hanahaki was relatively easy to cure – even if Roche’s feelings were unrequited, as long as the person cared for him any amount, he should survive. He just needed to give voice to his feelings, or so the stories said.

“Why can’t your king know you’re suffering from hanahaki?” 

Roche flinched, suddenly shying away from his touch. “Foltest would kill me,” Roche bemoaned, burying his face in his hands and incidentally smearing blood across his face.

Iorveth frowned. “Why? It’s – if dh’oine get hanahaki too, then–”

Roche whined, a small pathetic sound that was entirely startling coming from the broad dh’oine that Iorveth was used to facing in combat. “Because it means I’m a traitor,” Roche whispered, his voice so quiet that Iorveth had to lean forward to hear it. Roche’s breathing was shaky, and it could’ve been from the coughing, but if Iorveth knew Roche at all, it was because of what he’d said.

“You literally live and breathe Temeria, Vernon. How could you ever be a traitor?”

Roche just shook his head, and curled tighter into a ball. He sniffled quietly and Iorveth was struck with the horrifying realization that Roche was _crying._ What the fuck was Iorveth supposed to do with that!? They were _enemies,_ dammit. Iorveth didn’t sign up to deal with crying!

But he couldn’t just leave Roche like this, especially not when he still didn’t know what precisely was wrong or how long Roche had left. This couldn’t _actually_ be how Roche died. Vernon Roche deserved a warrior’s death – preferably one delivered by Iorveth’s own sword. Not this – coughing and moaning and weak, curled in a ball on his bed and hidden away from the world. 

Iorveth bit his lip, reaching out to push Roche’s sweaty chaperon back off his forehead. “I don’t know what’s going on or why your king would have an issue with it. But this I know with absolute conviction: you could never betray Temeria, Vernon. Just as I could never betray the Scoia’tael. Temeria is what you live for. It’s not possible for you to betray her.”

Roche moaned piteously, leaning into his hand. “That’s not really how treason works,” Roche mumbled, sniffling again. 

“Well it should be,” Iorveth said stubbornly. “It’s what matters. You probably fucking bleed Temerian blue, Vernon. There’s no way you could be a traitor.”

“But I am,” Roche whispered.

“Why?”

Roche shook his head, curling up tighter, but still leaning into Iorveth’s hand, which had fluttered down to stroke Roche’s back. 

Iorveth sighed, sitting down on the edge of Roche’s bed to reach him more easily. “Who is it?” Iorveth asked, voice as soft as he could make it.

Roche huffed a laugh and started coughing again, and Iorveth frowned, glancing around for a water jug. There was a glass beside Roche’s bed, but it was empty, so Iorveth reached for his belt and offered his own waterskin to Roche for when he finished coughing.

More red campions fell to the floor as Roche sipped carefully at the water and Iorveth narrowed his eyes at them. Who in Roche’s life could the red campions symbolize? Red campions meant gentleness – but who was left that could be considered gentle amongst Roche’s companions?

Definitely not Ves, that was for sure. Maybe that medic, Pillow Tits? He seemed to have the air of a caring healer. Not that a medic couldn’t be rough – Iorveth knew firsthand that pissing off a healer was a great way to end up thoroughly fucked up – but compared to the other Blue Stripes, Pillow Tits was definitely the most gentle.

Iorveth chewed on his lip. If that was the case, surely the medic reciprocated Roche’s feelings, at least enough to save him. After all, Roche was Iorveth’s _enemy,_ and even he felt _something_ for Roche. Granted, that something was mostly negative, but Pillow Tits was Roche’s teammate, so of course his feelings would be more positive. 

But if that was the case, why would Roche still be sick? The concern in all of the Stripes’ voices had been real. They clearly cared for their commander and certainly didn’t want him dead.

“You said you couldn’t admit to it,” Iorveth thought aloud. “Why? If you just tell them–”

Roche snorted. “Wouldn’t make a difference.” His voice was sad and resigned and Iorveth felt the sudden urge to go hunt Pillow Tits down and _force_ him to love Roche.

“You’re not allowed to die like this,” Iorveth swore. “I’m the only one allowed to kill you. This stupid illness can’t take you. Understand, Vernon? You’re not allowed to die like this.”

He shook Roche’s shoulder as he spoke and Roche turned over with the movement, looking up at him with hazy, watery eyes. “You’ll be the one to kill me,” Roche murmured, and he stated it like a fact, tone entirely devoid of doubt.

“Damn right I will,” Iorveth said with a confidence he didn’t feel. He might be the only one allowed to kill Roche, but based on their prior encounters, he wasn’t entirely sure that he _could_ kill Roche.

“I know,” Roche smiled at him, a small sad thing that made heat build behind Iorveth’s eyes and nose. He swallowed harshly, reaching up to wipe the blood away from Roche’s face. Roche closed his eyes, tilting his face into Iorveth’s hand. He blinked slowly up at Iorveth, eyelids heavy enough that Iorveth could see the effort it took to open his eyes each time.

“Go to sleep, Vernon,” Iorveth said, stroking his thumb across Roche’s face. “Rest will help.”

“No, it won’t,” Roche replied, but nonetheless, he let his eyes fall closed and as Iorveth watched, his breathing began to slow. It was still raspy and rattling, but the rise and fall of Roche’s chest was steady.

Iorveth was still for a long moment, except for his thumb, which stroked across Roche’s cheek as if he was something special. 

Which he _was,_ of course, as Iorveth’s enemy. A wily and cunning enemy that deserved respect. That’s all that this was.

There was no part of him that felt disappointment that Roche was in love with someone. Someone not Iorveth.

Not that Iorveth wanted that, obviously. 

Clearing his throat, Iorveth snatched his hand back and made his way back towards the window. He shouldn’t have come here. It had been a stupid, unnecessary risk, and he was lucky Roche thought he was a hallucination. He needed to leave – there was nothing he could do here, and besides, of everyone Roche would wish at his bedside, Iorveth would probably be the last.

That didn’t stop Iorveth from hesitating before he left, taking a final look at his enemy. This would not be the last time he saw Roche. Iorveth would make sure of that.

When he left Roche’s house, Iorveth _should_ have headed back to the Scoia’tael base. Ciaran would be wondering where he was and he really should go back and receive the reports on how the operation had gone.

Instead, he headed in the opposite direction, searching the streets for the one he needed to talk to.

_There,_ Iorveth thought, recognizing the unmistakable silhouette of the biggest man he had ever seen. Now, how could he get the man somewhere alone where Iorveth could talk to him?

As he was contemplating exactly how to go about that, Iorveth jumped onto the roof next to Pillow Tits – and then cartwheeled his arms around as, despite landing perfectly, his feet began sliding down the roof.

With a yelp, he toppled off the roof – and landed right on top of Pillow Tits.

The good news was that Pillow Tits was, indeed, extremely pillowy. Iorveth had never had better padding for a fall. The bad news was that his dignity would probably never recover. 

Clearing his throat, Iorveth rolled off of Pillow Tits and quickly pulled his knife, rolling his shoulders and pretending that the entire spectacle had never happened.

Pillow Tits blinked up at him in bemusement. “Um… hi?”

Iorveth glared at the dh’oine. He had a good glare – a significant number of men had surrendered to the Scoia’tael when faced with just his glare.

Pillow Tits was unphased. “Am I being mugged?”

“I’m not a bandit,” Iorveth snarled. “Why haven’t you cured him? Hanahaki is simple to cure!”

Pillow Tits tilted his head. “Him – Commander Roche?”

Iorveth gave him a _look_. Who else would he be talking about?

“I would never discuss a patient’s condition without their permission,” Pillow Tits said slowly. “But in Commander Roche’s case, I’m afraid the cure is less simple. He is unwilling to confess.”

Iorveth narrowed his eyes. “You know his feelings. I assume you haven’t rejected him…”

So why was Roche still affected? Was the confession that important for the cure?

Pillow Tits stared at him. “You… think Commander Roche loves… me?”

Judging from Pillow Tits’ confusion, he was apparently wrong. He could feel his cheeks flushing even as he tried to defend his assumption. “He’s coughing up red campions. Who else in his life would gentleness refer to?”

Pillow Tits’ face scrunched, “...what? Where does gentleness come in? And – wait, you’ve seen Commander Roche?”

Iorveth frowned, completely baffled. “They’re red campions.”

“...yes?”

“They mean gentleness…?”

Pillow Tits looked surprised, “they do?”

Now Iorveth was the one lost. “It… doesn’t mean you?”

Pillow Tits shook his head. “They’re flowers,” he said, as if that explained everything. 

“So? That’s what hanahaki is.” Everything Iorveth knew about Pillow Tits indicated he was an effective medic, but now Iorveth was starting to have doubts.

“Not for humans.”

“...what?”

“As you can imagine, I’ve been doing a lot of research on this illness,” Pillow Tits explained. “Before that, I had no idea elves coughed up flowers. For us, when people fall sick like this, their lungs fill with fruit. Turns out, every species has different plant parts associated with this disease.”

Iorveth blinked rapidly, digesting that. “So… why is he coughing up flowers?”

Pillow Tits’ look implied that his opinion of Iorveth’s intelligence was rapidly plummeting. “What part of the plant you cough up reflects the person you love.”

Iorveth tilted his head, slowly thinking through Pillow Tits’ words. Every case of hanahaki amongst elves involved coughing up flowers. Other species could also have hanahaki, and what they coughed up was dependent on the species of the person they needed to confess to. Roche was coughing up flowers.

Roche was in love with an elf.

Iorveth felt oddly disconnected from his body. All he could hear was the pounding of his heart and the rattle of his breath.

Which elf? Roche was Commander of the Blue Stripes, there couldn’t be that many elves in his acquaintance. Really, it would probably only be the Scoia’tael.

Without saying anything to Pillow Tits, Iorveth turned away from the dh’oine, climbed back up to the rooftop – _not_ the same one he’d fallen off of – and made his way back towards Roche’s house, thoughts whirling all the while.

Roche was in love with one of the Scoia’tael. One of Iorveth’s Scoia’tael.

Slipping in through Roche’s window, he slowly approached the dh’oine’s bed.

“You could've just told me you were in love with one of my people,” Iorveth said in greeting. The bitterness he’d been attempting to hide since his realization shone through in his tone, though he hoped Roche wouldn’t notice.

Roche jerked awake, blinking at him blearily. “Iorv’th? ‘m dreaming.”

“No, you’re _dying,”_ Iorveth growled, “and you’re not allowed to die at anyone else’s hand.”

“Mmhm,” Roche hummed, eyes closing heavily again before he pried them open to stare as Iorveth sat on his bed.

“So who is it?” Iorveth demanded. “I’ll find a way to bring them here, then you can confess and get back to fighting me.”

Roche grunted softly, and Iorveth noticed that he looked more wane than earlier. He had deteriorated rapidly, which meant he was running out of time.

Desperation crawled up Iorveth’s throat and he scooted closer to Roche, reaching out to grab his shoulder. “Who is it? Who do you need me to bring?”

Roche blinked slowly, tilting his chin down to look at Iorveth’s hand on his shoulder. “You… are you really here?” He huffed, shaking his head. “Tha’ would be nice. Don’ wanna die alone.”

Iorveth felt something wild rise up in him. No! Roche wasn’t allowed to die! _Iorveth_ was the one who got to decide when and how Roche would die and it wasn’t like this!

He used his grip on Roche’s shoulder to pull the dh’oine up and into him. He needed – he needed something. Something involving Roche healthy and fighting him the way Roche was supposed to. 

“Dammit, Vernon, just tell me how to _help you!”_

Roche smiled at him, still soft and sad and nothing like the Commander of the Blue Stripes should ever look like. “‘m glad you’re here.” Roche reached up to touch him, but partway through the motion, Roche’s body shuddered and then he went lax, hand dropping down onto Iorveth’s thigh with a soft thud.

“No!” 

Iorveth was aware of his mouth opening, but he couldn’t hear his scream, couldn’t hear anything except the silence where the rattle of Roche’s breath was supposed to be. He cradled Roche close to him, and only the tickle of tears dripping off his chin made him aware he was crying. He pressed his face against Roche’s forehead, rocking slightly in despair. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Roche wasn’t supposed to die, not unless Iorveth killed him. And dammit, Iorveth wanted him _alive!_

Drawing in a shaky breath, he squeezed Roche tightly against him – and then pulled back quickly when Roche coughed.

“Vernon?” Hands scrambling to lift Roche’s face to his, he abruptly realized that Roche was struggling to breathe, his airway blocked by flower petals. 

Immediately, he shifted Roche further upright and thumped his back, hoping against hope that this was real, that Roche was still with him.

Roche gasped roughly, retching flowers that scraped his throat raw and were slowly suffocating him to death.

Iorveth rubbed Roche’s back, still holding him close. “Breathe, Vernon,” he murmured, and even though Roche was still coughing up flowers, he had to pull Roche’s face close and press kisses across it, because Roche was _alive_ and gods dammit, Iorveth would make sure he stayed that way if he had to force Roche’s soul back into his body himself.

At some point, Roche’s hands came up to clutch at him and Roche’s lips moved with a whisper of breath. Iorveth held his own, straining to listen.

“Chan eil mi duilich gur e thu.”

Roche’s lips moved against Iorveth’s skin as he murmured in Elder, _I don’t regret that it’s you,_ and Iorveth inhaled sharply, wondering if he was imagining things. Roche couldn’t really have said that, surely. He couldn’t really be implying that he loved _Iorveth._

He’d learned Elder to say this, Iorveth realized. His pronunciation was even understandable.

Iorveth was moving before he was really aware of it, pressing their lips together with desperation. Their kiss held an iron tang from the blood Roche had been coughing up and Iorveth suddenly wanted nothing more in life than to lick into Roche’s mouth until the taste of blood was nothing but a memory. But for now, it was enough just to press their lips together and move his hands frantically across Roche’s body, confirming that he was truly alive.

When they parted, Roche gasped for air, but unlike before, he was able to inhale great lungfuls and his exhales were unhindered by flower petals. He was cured.

_That means,_ Iorveth realized with a brain that lagged, its focus entirely on Roche, _he really does love me._

In all honesty, Iorveth had never really thought about how he felt about Roche before, aside from the fact that they were enemies and there was a certain amount of propriety that gave him. But given the way losing Roche had affected him, he felt a lot more strongly than he’d ever realized. 

“Vernon,” he whispered, wiping blood from the corner of Roche’s mouth. 

“Iorveth,” Roche stared at him in astonishment. “You’re real.”

“You’re alive,” Iorveth replied, amazed and grateful and absolutely utterly relieved. “You’re alive,” he said again, surging forward to kiss Roche again.

Roche made a soft surprised sound, but responded immediately, melting into him as they sucked and nipped at each other’s lips. 

When they parted this time, Iorveth felt giddy laughter bubbling up his throat. Who would have thought he would ever be here, kissing Vernon Roche with a desperation he’d never felt before. Roche was alive. Roche _loved him._

_Roche_ loved him.

Still giggling, he kissed Roche again and again, and soon Roche’s rough chuckles joined in. Roche’s hands were warm against his skin, one wrapped around the back of his neck, the other hot against his side. The meat of Roche’s thumb rested against the corner of his jaw, and when Roche brushed that thumb across his ear, Iorveth shivered and pressed closer. 

“I thought I imagined you,” Roche said against his lips.

“I thought you _fucking died,”_ Iorveth said, voice uncomfortably shaky. Not quite something he was prepared to joke about yet. “I thought you left me.”

“Never,” Roche grinned. “You’re the only one allowed to kill me.”

Just for that, Iorveth had to kiss Roche again and Roche opened up to him easily. A burning hand slid up Iorveth’s back underneath his tunic, spreading shivers in its wake.

Neither of them were expecting the swift knock on the door, nor the way it opened seconds later, giving them no chance to scramble apart. 

“I’m sorry,” Pillow Tits said, “I waited as long as I could, but–”

“I’m okay,” Roche rasped. It sounded painful, and Iorveth wondered how much damage the illness had done to his throat, to his lungs.

Pillow Tits responded firmly, “I’d prefer to determine that for myself. If you’re done.” 

Without waiting for an answer, the medic strode forward, pulling a stethoscope out of a pocket. Iorveth clambered out of Pillow Tits’ way, mourning the way Roche’s hand left his back as he pulled away. He didn’t get far – Roche wrapped his fingers tightly around Iorveth’s wrist as if afraid he would disappear.

It was entirely possible he might. The medic may be first and foremost concerned for his patient, but if the rest of the Blue Stripes were about, then Iorveth really, really needed to be somewhere else. Getting killed by Roche’s men would be a shit way for this all to end. 

Pillow Tits pressed the chestpiece against Roche’s back and instructed him to breathe deeply, listening with intense concentration. Iorveth held his breath, wondering if all of this was about to be shattered, if Roche was going to die anyway–

“Your lungs sound good,” Pillow Tits said. “The obstructions – uh, the flowers, that is – seem to have entirely disappeared.

“It was that fucking easy!?” Roche’s voice was slightly shrill.

“Told you,” Pillow Tits said, quietly smug, and Iorveth decided Roche had good taste in medics. 

“Yeah, but I didn’t think – uh,” Roche stuttered, breaking off and darting a glance towards Iorveth.

Biting his lip, Iorveth twisted his wrist and wrapped his own fingers around Roche’s wrist. The dh’oine’s pulse thudded reassuringly against his palm and he brushed his thumb back and forth over the skin of Roche’s forearm. The corner of Roche’s mouth twitched upwards and fingers squeezed Iorveth’s arm in return.

Pillow Tits was smiling openly, a hint of triumph sparkling in his eyes amongst the relief. “I’m glad you managed to say something before your stubbornness could kill you,” he scolded. Then he turned to Iorveth with an expression that was entirely innocent as he said, “the squad is excited to meet you.”

Iorveth blanched.

“Ah fuck,” Roche groaned.

Pillow Tits just beamed.


End file.
